


your lover is gone, let me in

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, I did warn you though it is a tiny bit angsty, I was feeling it I guess, Sibling Incest, Smut and Angst, Sorry Not Sorry, Spellcest, so basically I listened to a Melissa Etheridge song and this fic happened, swingin sisters, thanks Melissa etheridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 03:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Hilda had promised Zelda that she would never marry that man, but had asked for this one small thing in return.





	your lover is gone, let me in

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so here's what happened: last week, I was sitting *forever* at a red light (aka the Punishment Light) on my way to work, singing along to "I Want To Come Over" by Melissa Etheridge and...basically this idea happened. Comments are just. The Greatest.   
Love ya, weirdos!

She doesn’t have to wait very long. 

She takes a drag of her cigarette, smoke curling around her, offering a hazy view of the tail lights of his car as he backs out of the driveway. 

The house is much smaller than the mortuary and lacks the New England charm that permeates Greendale. It is, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly respectable location for a young couple in love to build a life together. 

It’s not nearly good enough for her sister, but it’s what her sister has settled for. 

Hilda had promised Zelda that she would never marry that man, but had asked for this _one small thing_ in return. 

To have them both, but to live out his mortal years with him. 

What else could Zelda do but let her go?

Zelda watches the car drive down the road and turn left at the stop sign. He’s heading to his weekly “poker” game, though she knows it’s really code for covert Dungeons & Dragons that he plays in the basement of his brother’s house. 

Mortals, she finds, are bizarre -- honest about being a sex demon, cagey about a frivolous hobby. She doesn’t expect much from a man willingly calling himself _Doctor Cerberus._

At any rate, he’s gone. This unannounced visit isn’t about him, anyway. 

Zelda takes the final drag on her cigarette. 

When she knocks on the back door, Zelda holds her breath. 

Of course Hilda will answer -- even if she _has_ chosen to leave. 

(_“I’m not leaving you, Zelds. I’ll be just across town, and you can visit whenever you’d like.”_) 

Hilda is surprised to see her when she opens the door. Zelda leaves no time for pleasantries; she simply cups her sister’s cheeks in her hands and presses their mouths together in a kiss that is achingly slow and fueled by three weeks worth of yearning. Hilda grasps at her elbows, holding on as Zelda’s tongue sweeps insistently into her mouth. 

Zelda is more relieved than she will ever admit that Hilda pulls her closer rather than pushes her away. 

When Hilda steps back, they’re both breathless. The blonde witch stands on the tips of her toes in her maroon mary janes, peering over Zelda’s shoulder into the empty driveway.

“Cee could’ve been home,” she chastizes, lowering to the ground, though there is no bite to her tone. There is just lust, raw and unabashed and unleashed. 

“I waited for him to leave.” Zelda pushes her baby sister into her small but functional kitchen, kicking the door shut behind her. They stand there momentarily, watching as Zelda’s keys hit the counter. The sound is sharp, jarring, and it spurs Zelda into action. She stalks toward her sister, her hips swaying in the seductive way Hilda has always loved. 

Hilda swallows, distracted, allows her back to be shoved against the refrigerator. “Zelda.” 

Zelda’s not the empath, but she can feel Hilda’s guilt like a heavy wool shroud. It’s no surprise to Zelda that her sister has come to believe in some romantic, foolish semblance of mortal monogamy, at least for her mortal companion’s sake. 

But Hilda arches into her touch anyway and sighs when their mouths meet again. She squeals when Zelda wastes no time in slipping a hand beneath her dress and fuschia tights, pressing against the soaked gusset of her cotton briefs. It thrills her to find nothing but the proof of her sister’s own unquestionable arousal. 

Hilda may have gone but oh, this will never, ever change between them, this burning heat, this greedy, desperate hunger they’ve yet to sate. 

Zelda will never have enough of her. 

Zelda wants her more than ever now that she is expected to share her with _that man_. 

She hooks a finger at the elastic around Hilda’s thigh, tugging the gusset aside to reveal only abundant wetness. Hilda’s folds are swollen and sensitive and so, so slick. It is Zelda now whose moan fills the kitchen. 

There is nothing but the slippery glide of her fingers, the needy gasps that escape her sister’s lips. 

It’s tongues and spit and promises and sighs and magic. 

Hilda’s head thrashes back against the freezer door, dislodging photos of the mortal’s family and tacky magnets from such glamorous vacation destinations as Florida. It will never fail to satisfy Zelda to watch her darling sister’s carefully crafted life in slight disarray. It thrills her to see _her_ Hilda, rocking her hips to chase every unholy thrust of her fingers, reaching places that not even an incubus can find. 

Zelda can’t stop the thoughts from creeping in, more effectively sadistic than any lash of the whip. Does Hilda shudder like this around that man’s cock? Does Hilda make such sweet sounds for him? Does she beg him for more? 

Has Hilda taught him all her secret, favorite places to be touched and teased? 

Does Hilda think about her when she’s with him, thighs spread so sweetly? 

Does she think of Zelda while she makes dinner in this bland little kitchen, without her beloved heirloom crockery? Does she think of Zelda when she flosses her teeth before bed and prepares to snuggle close to someone else? 

Jealousy burns hot, insistent, and so fucking familiar. 

“Zelds,” Hilda whispers, lips fluttering against her sister’s ear. “Come back. Stay here with me, sister.” She grinds down hard against Zelda’s hand, threads her fingers into her sister’s hair, guides their mouths together. 

That’s all Zelda really wants, in the end. To stay with her sister. To be where Hilda is. 

Forever and ever. 

“Please,” Hilda gasps, rucking up her own dress. “Sister, _please_...” 

There will be plenty of time to torture herself once she returns to the silence of the mortuary. 

Once she is alone. 

But she’s not alone now, and Hilda’s thighs are trembling, and she is panting for breath. It is Zelda who she wants, who she is begging to make her come, who can give her what she needs. Zelda will give her anything, everything. 

She grinds the heel of her palm against Hilda’s stiff clitoris, making the younger woman’s hips jump. “You’re mine,” Zelda hisses, nipping at Hilda’s ear. “Or had you forgotten?” 

“I’ve always been yours,” Hilda gasps, and when she comes, it is Zelda’s name that fills the room, their magic that seeps into the walls and cracks in the ceiling. 

It’s their love, creeping into the fabric of the life Hilda has woven with someone else. 

It’s Hilda who guides them across the room, who seats herself at the chair at the head of the kitchen table (Zelda will later recall that this is _his_ chair), who pulls Zelda into a straddling position in her lap. 

Zelda magics away the scrap of lace between her legs, lets herself be filled and fucked by her sister’s sure, steady fingers. She does not hold back. 

The chair squeaks against the linoleum. 

Her nails scratch the varnish where she grabs the edge of the table. He will see these marks, will wonder about them. 

He won’t ask where they came from, and Hilda won’t offer an explanation. 

“That’s it, love,” Hilda encourages. Her right hand is insistent, three fingers thrusting to match Zelda’s frantic pace; the left hand is a delicious counterpoint, all gentle, featherlight caresses against Zelda’s cheek. 

“Hildie,” Zelda gasps when she teeters on the edge, hovers breathless before the fall. 

Hilda’s arm curls around her waist, braces her, anchors her. “I’ve got you.” 

Zelda clenches her eyes firmly shut, blocking out the sight of his cape hanging on the coat rack, the plate of oatmeal cookies that no Spellman would ever eat, the loafers and snow boots lined up near the door. Her world narrows to the lips brushing against her cheek, the fingers inside her, the heart pounding against her own. 

When she comes, there is only Hilda. 

She clings to her sister long after it’s over. 

“Hildegard.” 

Younger sister pulls back, brushes rose gold hair behind her ear. “What is it, love?” 

Zelda wants a cigarette, instead lets out what she has rehearsed nightly after her prayers. “I need more from you than this. I demand some kind of commitment, Hilda. This is -- I will not be your afterthought. I have been more than fair --” 

Hilda takes pity and silences her with a kiss. “How would you feel about a weekly girl’s night?” 

Zelda has very strong feelings about a weekly girl’s night, but she will take whatever crumbs Hilda is willing to offer. She won’t be coming for pinot grigio and girl talk. If Hilda must dress it up in frills and euphemisms, so be it. 

Zelda leaves a strategically-placed cigarette butt in the driveway and her panties in the pocket of her sister’s apron. 

This will satisfy her for now -- until next week’s girl’s night.

\---


End file.
